Horace: Book I, Ode 38

So may the tide of virgin life,
As smooth, as quick, as clear,
If e'er, in momentary strife,

It dimple with a tear,
As soon regain its sweet repose, —
And rest in peace, because it flows,

For ever on its way.
"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus."

NAY, nay, my boy — 'tis not for me,
This studious pomp of eastern luxury :
Give me no various garlands, fine

With linden twine,
Nor seek, where latest lingering blows
The solitary rose.

Earnest I beg — add not, with toilsome pain,
One far-sought blossom to the myrtle plain,
For sure, the fragrant myrtle bough

Looks seemliest on thy brow ;
Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine,
Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine.